


Sunshine and Steel

by pentagonbuddy



Series: Dedue Appreciation Hours [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cool sword, M/M, but also he has feelings on duscur and cultural appropriation, dedue appreciation hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 12:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21054401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: Duscur feels intangible at times even though Dedue knows there is still physical proof of his home. When Ferdinand stumbles upon one such reminder, Dedue is determined to reclaim it.





	Sunshine and Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Dedue deserves all the appreciation and good things and narrative space to work through his Feelings, and ferdinand is a precious ball of sunshine even if he can be oblivious sometimes
> 
> Thanks to [Archaeopteryx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx) as well as [copingcapricorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copingcapricorn/profile) for their big brain input!

There is nothing unusual about sparring with Dimitri. To have others present at the training ground matches the usual rhythms, as do the beats of grunts and clattering weapons, but...

While he and Dimitri have their usual song and dance, today he finds himself out of sync whenever he overhears the other students present—Ferdinand and Felix. Ferdinand is far too loud—which usually isn’t an issue, he has no idea what makes today different—while Felix occupies the same spot in his attention that all threats to His Highness do. Even so, he is used to his uncomfortable presence; it shouldn’t be get to him like this.

A flash of metal in the sunlight strikes his eyes at just the right angle for Dimitri’s jab to pierce his defenses, though Dedue jerks to the side so that it only grazes. Dimitri seizes the opening for a second, then third jab as Dedue scrambles to recover, until his guard is restored and he can smack the lance away with a swing of his axe.

Dimitri laughs at the sloppy movement. “Surely you aren’t _letting_ me win?”

“Of course not, Your Highness.”

It is foolish, he knows, to glance at the source of the distraction—the battlefield is a dazzling array of glints and shines and flashes on sunny days—but he glances all the same. Ferdinand brandishes a sword at Felix. There’s something about the blade’s curve that catches Dedue’s eye—

He winces through gritted teeth as Dimitri’s lance slams into his side.

“_Dedue,_” he whines, and Dedue can hear the pout on his face.

“My apologies.” His side is tender when he touches it; he’ll likely earn a bruise for his inattention.

Instead of another round, Dimitri steps towards him and follows his gaze. “...Ah, I can see why you might be distracted. Shall we take a look?”

Before Dedue can answer, Dimitri walks up to Ferdinand and Felix, greets them with a “good afternoon, gentlemen,” and is met by the extremes of human emotion: Felix, who withers at the very sight of Dimitri, while Ferdinand blossoms with a sparkling grin, the sort he makes when acknowledged by just about anyone.

“Why hello there, Your Highness!” Ferdinand says with a slight bow. “Perhaps you have noticed something fantastic?”

“Your ego,” Felix snipes.

Both Ferdinand and Dimitri laugh, despite the way—or perhaps because of how—this deepens Felix’s scowl. Their chatter about the sword compels Dedue to follow, though he makes no attempts to join the conversation.

A traveling merchant had sold it to Ferdinand, apparently, who’d been taken in by its expert craftsmanship. Felix debates this even though Dedue can tell he agrees, and they all speculate about the maker. Zoltan, Ferdinand hopes, which leads into another debate between them.

All the while Dedue stares at the blade’s curve, the zigzag pattern along the hilt, the mark he wonders if the pommel bears...this sword wasn’t made for combat. All three—four—of them agree on that. The ornamentation, sparse as it is, suggests a ceremonial purpose, though no one can figure out what sort of noble would be humble enough to own such a simple sword.

Not a noble; a priest. Ceremonies to the harvest god used curved blades, as did several others. Dedue keeps this observation to himself.

What he can’t hide, however, is how slack his features go when he finally sees the base of the pommel. The mark embedded into the metal sends him back to his childhood.

A clatter echoes through the training grounds when his axe slips from his limp fingers. Dimitri, Ferdinand, and Felix turn to him with similar confused expressions, though Dimitri’s has a touch more _concern_ mixed in.

“Are you alright?” Dimitri steps towards him.

“My...apologies.” Dedue backs away. “Excuse me.”

Dimitri says something to him about forgetting his axe as he leaves the training grounds, though it’s muffled by the heartbeat in his ears, which drums in time to a song for the harvest god.

* * *

Whenever Dedue is in search of His Highness, there are—blessedly—few places he is likely to be. With no sign of him in the training grounds, Dedue reluctantly ventures into the knight’s hall for what he hopes will be a quick conversation.

It’s never been his favorite place to train. The inevitable storm of dirt and straw—occasionally, with blood—when sparring sticks to his skin no matter what he wears, and while the warmth from the fireplace is a comfort when resting, most of the time it just makes him feel like a dying candle.

Dedue tugs at his collar out of reflex, coaxing the air to cool his neck as he looks towards the fireplace.

No Dimitri, but Ferdinand leafs through a book on something or other near the bookshelves. Dedue’s gaze is drawn right away to the curved sword at his hip, worn as a mere accessory. The thought burns in his chest.

His stare must burn, too, because Ferdinand looks up from his book and blinks at Dedue without his usual smile; in its place is a neutral expression save for one quirked eyebrow.

Dimitri isn’t here. Reason enough to leave, but…

Dedue clears his throat as he approaches Ferdinand. Simple enough to just ask if he’s seen His Highness and then leave.

“Yes?” Ferdinand asks after he fails to speak. “Do you need something?”

“No,” is the first thing he blurts out.

When Ferdinand _does_ smile, it’s a bit stiff at the edges. “Then did the prince wish to see me?”

“No.”

“Huh. Well then.” Ferdinand nods to him and then returns to his book. Hand rubbing his chin, he frowns at something inside as Dedue hovers over him, casting his shadow across its pages. Ferdinand’s thumb touches the corner of a page, starts to turn, and then he abruptly snaps the book shut and looks up.

There’s...something about his eyes. The fireplace light gives them a warm glow; Dedue finds that the longer he stares, the brighter they seem.

“Is something the matter?”

“...No.” Dedue’s composure is starting to melt. “I was just…admiring your sword.” It’s the truth, more or less.

“Oh!” All his missing cheer rushes into Ferdinand’s smile, in the way he shoves the book back onto the shelf and affixes Dedue with his full attention. “Why not say so?”

“You looked busy.” Less of the truth, but still not a lie.

Ferdinand is already unsheathing the sword. “You did not get a chance to see much of it the other day, no?” He holds it up so that light shines along its edge. “Is is not magnificent?”

He’s seen enough for his hands to tremble at his next question. “May I...hold it?”

“Take care not to drop it.” Ferdinand laughs as he hands it over.

The joke does little to steady Dedue’s hands—he sucks in a deep breath, holds it, grounds himself on the exhale.

The sword is solid and of a comfortable weight. He’d never been allowed to hold these as a child, out of concern for his safety as well as sacrilege, and the memory of his grandmother’s scolding keeps his touch light.

It feels...wrong to hold. It was never meant for him. It was _certainly_ never meant for an Adrestian noble.

Slowly, he turns the sword in his hands to check the pommel. Carved into its base is a mark that stings his eyes—the Molinaro family seal.

Dedue blinks back the beginnings of tears. “May I...have this?”

“Ah, to meet another connoisseur of fine art!” A nervous crack sneaks its way into Ferdinand’s next laugh. “I am flattered, but this was not an easy treasure to come by.”

Ferdinand holds his hand out for the sword. Dedue tightens his grip. If he had to, he could outrun someone used to having a horse lug him around, couldn’t he?

...And then what? All the endings to this line of thought are embarrassing, shameful, or both in varying degrees, and so he grits his teeth and relinquishes it.

“Perhaps we could make a deal?”

Dedue’s eyes leap from the floor back to Ferdinand’s face at the question. Even though that warm glow is still in his eyes, now it burns Dedue to meet his gaze.

“You are clearly a man of culture, so”—Ferdinand sheathes the sword with a smile—“I propose a trade. Find me a sword of similar quality and I will be happy to make the exchange.”

An impossible task, in Dedue’s eyes. But he stares at the pattern on the sheathe, heart smoldering with nostalgia, and nods. “Thank you.”

* * *

The exchange proves to be a difficult one, not that Dedue expects anything less, and so, after days of debate, he finds himself in Dimitri’s room, his posture stiff as he stands by the door with his hands folded behind his back.

“You’re more than welcome to ask things of me, you know,” Dimitri says in the easy way that comes to someone of his station. “A sword is the least I can give for all that you’ve done.”

Dimitri opens a chest at the foot of his bed and begins removing swords one by one, setting each on the blue rug as a sharp addition to a row of jagged teeth. It’s difficult to tell what makes one better than another from sight alone—Dimitri has a better eye for such things, which is why as painful as it is, Dedue could think of no one else to ask. The list of those with the expertise and a willingness to help him can be counted on his thumb.

Even if he were Dimitri’s friend, it would be presumptuous to ask for such a precious gift, but to do so as his _vassal_…

“I am sorry to trouble you.”

Still leaning over the chest, Dimitri pauses and sighs. His shoulders sag. Although Dedue can’t see beyond his drooping bangs, it’s easy to picture his vexed expression.

The chest creaks when Dimitri closes it. “What is with this sudden interest in swords, anyway?”

“Is it strange?”

“For you, yes.” He sits on the floor, one knee raised so he can rest his arm on it, and gestures for Dedue to join him. “Does this have something to do with Ferdinand?”

Dedue kneels, his hands now clenched into fists against his thighs. “What makes you say that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, there was the incident in the training grounds the other day—don’t think I haven’t caught you staring at him since”—Dimitri’s smirk stings more than his lance—“and you’ve been to the armory how many times now?”

“You...noticed?” A drop of sweat dips below his collar. His fingers itch with the urge to rub his neck, but he keeps himself statue-still.

“Of course I noticed.” Dimitri’s pout is downright lethal.

Dedue tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “I...am hoping to trade Ferdinand for his recent purchase. That is all.”

“_That is all_?” Dimitri shifts so that he’s cross-legged and leaning forward, his pout deepening into a scowl. “There must be something special about it.”

Dedue weighs the pain of lying to Dimitri against the pain of picking at the scabs of his family—but both are minor scrapes in comparison to the ache in his chest as he thinks of how Dimitri would pity him if he knew.

“It is a ceremonial blade from Duscur.”

Understanding—or at least the assumption of understanding—smoothes out Dimitri’s features. “Oh. Why not just say so? I’m sure if you told Ferdinand, he’d—”

“We agreed to make an equivalent exchange.”

“All right, then did he say what type of sword he wanted?”

“...Similar quality.”

Dimitri looks over the blades between them and rubs his chin. “I’m afraid I don’t have much that is _ceremonial_…” He reaches for a silver sword with an engraved hilt. “I hate to say it, but Felix probably—”

Dedue stands, leans over, and starts picking up the swords on the rug. Wide-eyed, Dimitri stares as he returns them to the chest, one-by-one, in the same order they were removed.

“Why not—”

“You do not need to trouble yourself on my behalf.” He holds out his hand for the silver sword.

Dimitri holds it to his chest, frowns, then hands it over. “Are you going to talk to him?”

Felix? Ferdinand? No matter. “I will manage.”

The swords safe in their chest, Dedue closes it, his shoulders hunching up at Dimitri’s sigh, and then heads for the door.

“Dedue, at least let me—”

“Thank you for the offer.” His hand is tense on the doorknob. “It means a great deal.”

Mercifully, Dimitri doesn’t follow him into the hallway.

It would be easiest to admit defeat. Whether that was going to Felix or allowing Ferdinand to keep the sword, it would be easier than trying to trade for something so priceless. Even if he succeeded it would not bring anyone back—it would be a relic of Duscur all the same, collecting dust in his room. At least Ferdinand keeps it well-maintained and Dedue is no priest, so what use does he have for it?

It is easy to tell himself this. Believing it is another matter entirely.

Ferdinand’s boisterous voice bounces around the stone walls—Dedue startles when it drags him from his thoughts. He tiptoes—as if that is enough to conceal the presence of someone his size—down the hall, and a moment later, Lorenz titters a laugh at something Ferdinand said. Lorenz’s room isn’t that far from Dimitri’s; he and Ferdinand must be inside.

As he steps by it, trying to strike a balance between quick and quiet, he glances into the open doorway to find the two noblest of nobles enjoying their tea. At least Lorenz is; Ferdinand has his back to Dedue, but it sounds like he’s having a good time. His eyes are drawn to what he can see of Ferdinand’s waist, which is missing his sword belt.

And once he’s further down the hall, Dedue can’t help but notice that the door to Ferdinand’s room is _slightly_ ajar.

* * *

Dedue tells himself he has nothing to feel guilty about. His sleep that night is restless and when he wakes the next day his chest burns with this misplaced feeling which, as he reminds himself, has no reason to exist in the first place.

Though swords and swordplay have never been of much interest, Dedue leafs through the pages of a combat manual he’d checked out from the library. The topic plagues his thoughts today, and so he hides away in his room, guilt over this selfish whim gnawing at him. What, exactly, does he hope to accomplish? Becoming a swordsman?

This book doesn’t seem all that useful if that’s what he wants. None of the drawings, so far removed from the realities they try to depict, have any swords that bear a resemblence to the curved blade from Duscur, but that is to be expected.

Dimitri, Ferdinand, Felix—he doesn’t understand the appeal. Not all blades are tools for killing, and Dedue finds it hard to be so excited about the ones that are. 

Hunched over his desk, he traces the lines of an ink-crafted claymore. Were it real, he’d cut himself on the edge as he startles at the knock on his door.

It could be anyone. Of course, when he scoots his chair out and cracks his door open, he finds Ferdinand beaming at him through the gap.

“Good afternoon, Dedue!”

Yes, he could ignore him, but he knew Ferdinand would accost him sooner or later. Best to just get it over with.

“Good afternoon,” Dedue echoes, his tone flat.

Ferdinand sticks his nose past the gap. “I was wondering if you had some time to chat…?”

“I am...busy.”

“Oh, it will be quick.” Now he’s close enough for Dedue to see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes. “You have the word of a von Aegir.”

That means something to someone, somewhere. Dedue recoils, which gives Ferdinand enough room to stick his foot in the doorway.

“It will reflect poorly on the von Aegir name to be seen with a man of Duscur.”

“Ah, Duscur...” The sparkle fades from Ferdinand’s eyes as he turns his head. “But I am a man of Adrestia. You needn’t worry for my reputation—we have a very different outlook than Faerghus.”

Dedue opens the door wider. “You do?”

“Why, yes.” Ferdinand fills as much of the doorframe as he can manage. “Here, if you are concerned for who may see, let us discuss the matter in your room.”

With a sigh on his lips and a slump in his shoulders, Dedue opens his door the rest of the way and steps aside. Ferdinand strolls in, trying—poorly—to hide how his eyes search the room. As if Dedue would leave his sword somewhere in plain sight.

He returns to his desk, pulls the chair out, and motions for Ferdinand to sit. He takes his own seat on the bed across from his guest. Ferdinand settles into the seat, prim and proper in his posture, while Dedue wishes he could withdraw into his uniform like a turtle.

“What did you wish to speak about?”

“Duscur seems like a suitable topic.” Ferdinand crosses one knee over the other. “Not much is known about the region in Adrestia, but the ill reputation it has in Faerghus does not taint the heart of the Empire. And why should it?”

Though he knows it’s a rhetorical question, Dedue finds an answer on his lips anyway. He swallows it back down.

Ferdinand waves his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Exactly! There is no reason.”

“That is a relief to hear,” Dedue says, his voice a practiced sort of even, “but I do not live in the Empire.”

“Ah, true enough...” Wincing, Ferdinand lowers his hand and curls it against his chest.

He’d expected Ferdinand to start with the accusation. Most people would have. In some ways that would be easier, as he could either return the sword or deny it outright—even if neither option sounds appealing—and then get back to his day.

When Ferdinand makes no move to leave despite the long silence that’s settled between them, Dedue stands and clears his throat. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Ferdinand looks down to his own sword belt. “Do you recall the sword I bought?”

_Finally_. “I do.”

“I fear it has slipped from my grasp.”

“Regrettable. Were you able to pick it back up?”

Ferdinand’s laugh is perhaps a tad too high-pitched.. “No, no, it seems to have a mind of its own.” He glances around the room once more. ”Now, I do not mean to imply anything about your character, but have you seen it…?”

Dedue looks toward his window, where dust motes float in the light, and folds his hands behind his back.

“I am not sure what you would be implying.”

There’s another shift in Ferdinand’s tone, taut like a bowstring. “It was a rather expensive purchase.”

“Then I hope it finds its way back to you.”

“Yes, well, I think you may be able to help.”

Dedue glances at him. He’s leaning forward in his seat now, hands clutching his knees, his smile strained at the edges.

“Perhaps,” Dedue says.

“Ah, forgive my carelessness…” Ferdinand stands and joins him by the window. “But I do not recall your answer to my question. Have you seen it?”

Several answers stick in his throat all at once: _yes, no, technically yes, not recently_— 

After a pause, he turns to Ferdinand. “Do you know what type of blade it is?”

“Hm? A ceremonial one of some sort, but that is not—”

“It is part of a matching set.” Restless, Dedue begins to pace, his eyes drawn to the patterns in his room’s blue rug. ”One blade for the sun, one for the moon. Fire and water.”

Ferdinand says nothing.

“Priests would use them when making offerings to the harvest god. And others, but I...only remember how it went for the harvest god.”

“What else do you know about it?” When he speaks again, Ferdinand’s voice smoothes out into something tender. In some ways, it makes Dedue squirm more than his earlier curtness. “Oh, but you do not need to indulge my curiosity.”

No, he did not. Ferdinand’s words pick at scabs that Dedue prefers not to touch, even more than his talk with Dimitri yesterday. He’s already clawed one loose by dredging up memories of harvest festivals long past; to go on now would mean opening others.

Dedue waits until he can speak without a tremble in his voice.

“Once the blacksmith marked them with a family seal and they had been blessed, only priests were allowed to touch them.”

A tremble sneaks in anyway as another scab comes loose.

“One time, my grandmother yelled at me when I played with a set she had made. Said the sun god would give me a sunburn the next time I was out.” Dedue’s laugh is devoid of any mirth. “She was right.”

“Your grandmother is a blacksmith?”

“Most of my family was.”

Still at the window, Ferdinand fusses with his cravat. “I am...sorry.”

The furrow in his brow and the look in his eyes as he stares, appraising, evaluating, taking Dedue in not as a person but as a tragedy— 

“There is no need to apologize.” Dedue stands by his desk and squeezes the back of his chair. ”The Empire—you—were not involved.”

“No, about the sword, if I had known—”

He tightens his grip. “You would pity me, as you do now.”

“Pity?” Ferdinand’s neatly-trimmed eyebrows shoot up. He blinks. ”I suppose that is one way to look at it, but...is it so bad for someone else to feel sorrow at your losses?”

Is that still pity? Dedue isn’t sure. What he _does_ know, however, is that he’s raw after poking and prodding at so many old wounds, and for anyone else to see him like this only adds to the ache. Ferdinand can feel whatever he wants; it won’t change the past. Neither will Dedue’s feelings, and so he takes several deep breaths to clot the flow of memories.

“It does neither of us any good.”

Ferdinand purses his lips. “I find comfort in the thought that others care about what happens to me. Even a stranger.”

How noble of him.

“Thank you for telling me.” All Ferdinand needs to restore his own good cheer is a cough into his fist and to straighten his posture. He steps towards Dedue, grinning, and claps one hand on his shoulder. “Now I will be ever-vigilant when shopping. Should I find the blade’s partner, I will send it to you no matter the obstacle!” Ferdinand’s other hand crushes these theoretical obstacles in a fist.

Dedue blinks once, twice, a third time. From most people he’d dismiss such a promise as a joke or some empty platitude, but Ferdinand’s steel grip on his shoulder and the iron in his will inspire confidence.

How...noble of him. Naive and baffling, but delightfully noble.

Dedue’s chest feels lighter when he chuckles, quiet but genuine. “How will you know what the other one looks like?”

“...A fair point.” Ferdinand lets go so that he can rub his chin. “Perhaps if we were to discuss it over some tea...”

In the privacy of his thoughts, Dedue can admit that he wishes Ferdinand had not let go. A wry smile sneaks onto his lips. “So that I may give you further reasons to pity me?”

“Not at all!” The sarcasm sails right over Ferdinand’s head. “You have the heart of a noble, I can tell. There is much we could discuss.”

This _almost_ gets Dedue to laugh a second time. Ferdinand is a baffling man all around, but his earnest nature is charming in a familiar sort of way. If Dimitri hears of this, there may be an all-out war over who can find the matching sword first.

Dedue looks to the pillow on his bed and smiles. The slip costs him when he realizes Ferdinand follows his gaze, and he’s quick to find something else to stare at.

Too late—Ferdinand strolls towards his bed and pats the top of his pillow. “And you may keep the sword, of course.” Mercifully, he does not lift it. Dedue can pretend he doesn’t know. “The way I see it, we have made our exchange.”

He cannot, however, pretend to feel anything other than guilt at being caught. “Is that so?”

“Indeed!” Ferdinand laughs. “That sharp tongue of yours is a rare blade. I do not think I have ever seen you wield it.”

Despite the sunlight streaming in from his window, where Ferdinand stands is the brightest spot in his room. His enthusiasm is so radiant that Dedue fears it’ll somehow set him ablaze if he stays for much longer.

“You wish for me to give you my tongue?” Dedue’s smile starts to mirror Ferdinand’s, albeit much, much smaller.

A red blush blooms across Ferdinand’s cheeks. “H-ha! I would never suggest something so macabre, or...forward.”

Something about him really is contagious; Dedue finds himself placing his hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder. It’s a gentle touch, not a clap, and he uses it to guide Ferdinand back to the door.

“I look forward to it,” Dedue says in lieu of a proper farewell.

Ferdinand’s blush spreads until it looks like he’s contracted a sunburn of his own. _So easy to tease_, Dedue thinks as he shuts his door. 

Despite Ferdinand’s noble status, the lack of formal connection and difference in nationality made it easier to speak with him, somehow. He could talk freely without fear of repercussions, though perhaps Ferdinand’s infectious aura was mostly to blame for that.

Still. Dedue thinks of tea with him in the future, of basking in more of that boundless optimism, and his smile curves like the blade of his reclaimed sword.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the positive dedue feelings in the rarepair port, a discord server for that niche content! You can check it out here: https://discord.gg/SPeGQcm
> 
> I'm gonna write dedue interacting with almost everyone, just you watch


End file.
